


a picture of home

by brionytallis



Category: Bad Times at the El Royale (2018)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, it's my sleepover and i get to choose the headcanons, non canon character survival, soooo miles has a mom in the movie but she doesn't exist because i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-05 05:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16361885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brionytallis/pseuds/brionytallis
Summary: Miles can't remember the last time he felt true absolution. This kind of forgiveness comes from someone higher than God.





	1. come back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a self insert mum fic disguised as a real work. hope you enjoy nonetheless!
> 
> also, here is the song mama is singing :)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iqr-QkiIaSE

Coke doesn’t cut it when he needs to sleep- heroin always puts Miles out the fastest, which is why he must be dreaming. What seems strange is that he can’t remember shooting anything since last night. But there’s no other way he could be seeing himself walk through the halls of his childhood home, the place he hasn’t been in years.

The upstairs hallway looks just like he remembered. The walls are still fitted with the hardwoods that his mother used to tell him came from the gangplanks of grounded pirate ships, or at least she did until Miles was old enough to know better. There’s the grandfather clock that ticked to the tempo of his staccato heartbeat, and the worn patch in the floor in front of his mothers room from skidding into the doorframe, fleeing to her after countless nightmares beyond the age most would think to be acceptable.

There’s a fear Miles associates with walking this almost hallowed ground. It’s a fear he rationalizes with self hatred, the same fear that drove him to work for the El Royale as soon as he returned from Vietnam. The same fear that made him stop returning his mothers calls. She probably thinks him to be dead.

That would be better than knowing what he really was- nothing like he was before the war, nothing like she raised him to be, and worst of all, nothing like her.

Gods judgement weighed in at a meer grain of salt in comparison to his mothers, at least it did to Miles. Ms. Miller sure had her very public arguments with the Church, which she would gladly state if given the opportunity, but Miles was baptized and confirmed through his schools insistence. He even grew to like the steadiness of faith, how he would find himself wandering towards the doors of a church every Sunday, simply by force of habit. When he was shipped off to Vietnam and stopped attending mass, it felt like a weight off his back. But after the war, the weight came back, and it was crushing.

Praying in the mud of Vietnam, mind begging -and his heart screaming- for forgiveness, as he knelt amongst all 123 bodies he wiped from the earth was the last time he asked for absolution, or forgiveness. It was the last time he wanted it, at least until ~~Father~~ Flynn arrived, along with the opportunity to absolve himself. At least Miles could set himself straight with God. Maybe then, before he was sent to burn in hell for all eternity, God would take pity and allow him to look at his mother one last time. Even then, Miles wouldn’t dare ask forgiveness from her.

And then- the sound of a record dropping brings Miles back. Frank Sinatras voice begins to drift through the house from beyond the stairs. It’s an old record, his mothers favorite. Miles wants to wake up, wants to stop reminding himself of a better life. But he hears a familiar voice humming along to the tune, and he can’t stop himself from walking down the stairs.

Just before he reaches the bottom step, he skips it and jumps to the ground, recalling a childhood habit he hadn’t yet grown out of. When his feet hit the ground with a boom, the humming stops.

“Miles, baby, are you awake?”

Her voice sounds just like he remembered. 

"Come on in, I'm making biscuits."

That was it. Miles couldn’t walk away from her. And he didn’t want to anymore.

Sun streams through the windows of the kitchen, catching in the freshly flour dusted air, creating rays of golden light. When Miles was a child, he used to think this phenomenon was Gods light becoming visible to mankind: now he knows it’s hers. There, amongst an open recipe book and about a hundred kitchen tools, stands his mother.

Miles tries to open his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

His mother looks up at him, and his breath catches in his throat. Now he knows it must be a dream, or rather a memory, because she looks exactly the same as the day he shipped off to Vietnam, and not a day older.

“If you want breakfast faster, you can measure out the milk.” 

When Miles doesn’t have the will to obey her, she finally stops what she’s doing and puts the bowl she had been occupied with away on the counter.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

He shakes his head, still unable to speak.

His mother crosses the room, and then, in what seems like an instant, she’s right in front of him for the first time in years. Her hands, dusted in flour, rise to cradle his face. “What’s wrong, angel?”

Any thoughts of Vietnam, the El Royale, and everything in between disappear from his mind, and that somehow makes things even harder. Miles doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels his mother wipe a tear from his face.

“Mama I'm-” He stops himself. He’s  _what_? 

A murderer? A thief? A liar? Whatever he’s done, there's no word awful enough for all of it. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, but if he didn’t, it would make him an even worse liar.

As though she can hear his thoughts, his mother says “Oh, baby, don’t worry about any of that.” She guides him to the old dining table and sits him down, then returns to cooking. A few moments later, she hands him a plate of eggs and bacon.

“Eat first, okay?”

Miles nods, and picks up his fork to eat, but finds himself nauseated by the false security he’s allowed himself to have in what’s more than likely a drug induced hallucination.

“You have to eat, baby. Come on.”

When Miles still doesn't move, his mother rests her hip against the back of the chair and begins to card her hands through his hair, gently detangling as she goes, but it's only true purpose is to soothe him. He feels her fingers running through his hair, gentle and warm, lulling him to surrender. It’s a luxury he almost feels too guilty to accept, but instead he leans back against the chair and closes his eyes.

"Miles.... Miles, baby,"

The voice is clearer now. Her hands are still caressing his head. This feels real.

Miles opens his eyes. He’s not back at the old house. He’s not even in the maintenance closet.

He’s in a hospital room.

And his mother, alive, in the flesh, is there next to his bed.

It takes him a second to regain his bearings on the situation, and then he remembers. That girl, Rose, attempting to kill him. Darlene and Flynn half-arguing about how to keep the three of them free from suspicion as they carry Miles to a nearby hospital before he bleeds out. The El Royale going up in flames.

He can’t even blame his hallucination on the drugs because there was nothing in his system. He dreamt it all on a sober brain.

“Miles…. Oh angel, I’m beyond happy to see you.”

He looks to his side to find that his mother is crying.

“Why didn’t you ever call? Or write? Or do anything to let me know you were still alive? Why did I have to find out through a hospital calling me for next of kin? Why didn’t you come home?”

Miles tries not to think about how disappointed she’ll be when she finds out that his lack of communication is the least of his problems.

Then he finally spoke. “....I did things while I was over there. I’ve done…. I’ve done horrible things. Awful things. I didn’t want to come back without trying to fix myself, and then I **couldn’t**. Mama, I’m not a good man. I’m not what you wanted me to be. I’ve done things-”

He can’t get anymore out before he starts to cry so hard it hurts to breathe. He gasps for breath, trying not to choke on tears. 

“Mama, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”

His mother immediately shushes him, “No, no, angel it’s okay, you’re alright, you’re alright.”

“But I’m not,” Miles chokes out, “I’m not. You don’t know what I’ve done”

“I don’t have to.”

“No, you have no idea. No idea.”

“Miles.” His mother stops, taking his face in her hands. “You are my son. I know you better that anyone else. You are a good man. There’s nothing in the world that could make me think anything else of you.”

She wipes away the wetness on his cheeks, and lifts his wobbling chin to point his eyes towards her. “You are not your mistakes.” Miles can't remember the last time he felt true absolution. This kind of forgiveness comes from someone higher than God. Whether or not he's worthy of it yet will come with time.

Miles nods, more to appease her than in agreement. But then she smiles at him, and all was well.


	2. winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> miles starts to heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have returned and i come bearing gifts
> 
> this chapter was heavily motivated/inspired by queenjameskirk 's marvelous 8k cry fest "one bright and guiding light", thank you for helping me in my quest to drown out the billy lee porn in this tag.

“I’m home,” Miles calls into the kitchen from the front door. His rosary beads clink in the pocket of his jacket as he removes it, dusted with remains of the first snowfall of winter. He brushes a hand through his hair to remove any errant snowflakes, but comes away with cold and wet fingers, the ice already having melted. Miles didn’t quite get the love of snow his mother had. On his way back from therapy at Notre Dame, his boots had been soaked through when he trekked through the snow to the his old truck; the same one he had first learned to drive in, and has resumed its use again after returning home.

The half hours drive from his home in MIll Creek to Notre Dame was their compromise- Katherine had wanted her son to start rehab of some kind, but Miles was hesitant, and far too scared to open up. So Ms. Miller put in a few favours with some old coworkers from the university library, having amassed a good amount of friends since she began working there when she was pregnant. An old psychology professor, Dr. Wilson, who used to babysit Miles as a young boy, offered to take him in and start the rehab process in an effort to ease the boy into talking about…. well, anything at all.

It was rare now that Miles would even tell his mother about Vietnam, or the drugs, or ever mention the El Royale. In the eleven months since he’d come home, he had finally found some semblance of peace, and he didn’t intend on breaking the illusion by digging all that bad back up.

Life wasn’t exactly perfect. He woke up to night terrors now, an effect he had almost forgotten was stopped by heroin; (that was a bad night- the first time he awoke to blood on his hands, he raided the houses untouched liquor cabinet and drank so much he passed out).

Quitting substances cold turkey had been awful, but he staved off the worst of it with the occasional cigarette. Honestly, the only thing keeping him from going back to finding his nearest dealer was the lingering thought of his mother finding out that he’d relapsed. As bad as withdrawal felt, that was something he knew he really didn’t want to see.

Rehab was... helping. It wasn’t a straight ticket to recovery, Dr. Wilson had told him that the day they started. But it was getting him somewhere. He’d even started working on some projects for the carpenter who lived a mile down the road. That gave him something to be proud of, and something to prove to himself that he wasn’t stuck in the same place he thought he would always be.

Saint Patricks, their old church in Walkerton (Mill Creek wasn’t big enough for one of its own, as the area was more farmland than people) didn’t see many of the boys at war come home, so Miles was a bit of a novelty. He attended services weekly, and sometimes his ma went with him. That was a sight: Katherine Miller- the same Katherine Miller who showed up, new in town, pregnant and unmarried at 23, with fire on her tongue for the church, or anyone brave enough to share their opinion on her decisions- sitting silently in the pew next to her son, who was more well mannered than a Kennedy and still kissed his ma on the cheek during the sign of peace like he was in grade school.

She went because she’d “been separated more than enough already”, but Miles has a suspicion that it was really because of what happened the first time he went to mass last February.

Some dumb kids had jeered at him after the service, calling him a coward and telling him that God would send him to hell. Miles didn’t fight back- he never did. That time, it was more so because he agreed with what they said. But once Katherine had found out what had happened after Miles came home dejected, she attended every service with him, staring down anyone who gave them a funny look. The kids from before made the mistake of trying to jab at Miles again a few weeks later, and after Katherine got ahold of them and nearly yelled their ears off, the boys families had mysteriously changed parishes by the next Sunday. Miles had never seen his mother yell before, but he fully understood why those boys moved to escape her wrath after hearing it.

That didn’t stop Miles from remembering their words. The guilt of his actions still lingered every time he stepped into the sanctuary, as he knew it always would, no matter how much time would pass.

But he was happy- truly, genuinely, thoroughly happy for the first time in years. And for the first time since before Vietnam, he started to feel like a whole man again.

Miles fingers started to burn with the temperature change as he pulled his gloves off his now wet fingers. On the way home, he had stopped at the farmers market to pick up his mothers requested ingredients, and his frostbitten fingers were making him regret staying out for hours. As he shucks his outer layers in the doorframe, he looks into the kitchen. “Mama? Y’ home?”

From the sitting room, his mother looks up from her book. “Oh, good, you’re back” she says, marking her book and rising to take the bag of potatoes from his hands. “What took you so long?”

“Luke and Eli were at the farmers market.” Miles toes off his shoes, leaving them strewn on the floor, and then drops unceremoniously to the couch.

Katherine hangs his coat in the closet, kicking his shoes in as an afterthought. “Oh? You know, their mother told me they started college this fall. Far cry from the kids who you used to walk to school, huh?”

“Well I would have asked about them,” Miles throws and arm over his eyes, “but I got a face full’a snow before I could really catch up.”

“What?” Katheine stops folding his jacket. “Did those Walker boys-“

“No, no, mama, they were just playin’. I got in a few good licks myself; it’s been a while since I’ve thrown a snowball, but my aim was straight.”

“Well,” Katherine says as she sat next to Miles on the sofa, picking up her book to resume reading, “From now on, layer up when you go outside.”

He closes his eyes, and nods half-subconsciously in agreement.

“Angel, I’m being serious. I don’t need you catching the flu.”

“Mhm,” Miles hums, too drowsy to hold a conversation. He moves to take up more space on the couch, until his head bumps into his mother’s leg. So he scoots back far enough until he can not-so-subtlety lay his head on her lap.

Katherine exhales, resisting the urge to smile; Miles damp hair is cold as it seeps through the fabric of her frock, but lacking the will to give up this precious time. God knows she would have killed for it just a year ago, so she marks the page and puts the book down. Her hands rake through Miles cold and wet hair, lulling him into exhaustion. He shivers involuntarily when a stray droplet of water trickles down his neck.

“Are you still cold?” she asks him.

Miles nods, still shivering under his sweater. His mother pulls over a blanket from the other side of the couch, and draped it onto him. His still cold fingers catch the fabric, rubbing it to create a little bit of heat.

“Oh angel,” his mother briefly laughs, “how did you ever get on without me?”

Miles opens his eyes, smiling up at his mother, and nuzzles his head into her stomach.

 

* * *

 

In sleep, the air Miles breathes tastes like blood. Mud is caked so heavily onto him that it feels like a second skin. Death by suffocation seems imminent, if not by his heart giving out. The last survivor of his unit, each one having gone down fighting, and he’s about to be taken out by the thickness of the air. It’s the death of a coward; and it’s well deserved.  

Snipers are almost never in danger; they’re not the ones on the front lines. Miles never wanted war- he was drafted without a say in the matter, and he was still given the role which would almost guarantee his survival. It also came with the highest kill count.

Miles had even tried not to get too familiar with his fellow soldiers, in an attempt not to get too attached in case the worst happened. But he did anyway, as his friendly and gentle nature had endeared him to many in his unit, and Miles befriended them against his better judgement. Some were straight out of high school, like Miles, others were nearing their 40’s. None of them wanted to serve. One of the men was a soon to be father when he died.

When Miles rose from the ground to find his entire unit dead, he asked God to replace his life with theirs, in the hopes that men better than him could walk the earth while he wasted away. He stops praying for forgiveness after the first hour on his knees. Now he only begs God for mercy. He’s cried so much his body can’t produce any more tears, and he’s been relegated to dry, heaving sobs.

One gasping fit is strong enough to pull him out of sleep, and Miles is immediately off put by the change in atmosphere.

Miles has buried himself under what feels like a hundred blankets in his bed. Snow still falls just outside his window, and cold seeps in through the hardwood floor beneath his bed. As much as he hates the cold, it’s a welcome environment after a dream of breathing in the muggy haze of the Vietnamese jungle. The quilts laid atop him weren’t there after he had staggered up the stairs and fallen asleep without getting undressed. His mother must have put him to bed, and she was probably also the one who had undone the top three buttons of his collared shirt. His mother also closed the curtains, laid out his socks, and more than likely, had kissed his forehead before she left the room.

Miles wants his mother. He wants to run from the cold and lonesomeness of his bedroom, and take advantage of her presence which he had lacked when he needed it most. He wants to bury himself under the same quilt he used to as a child to protect himself from monsters, as his mother hushed to him that it was all just a bad dream.

His brain hardly processes the thought before he gets out of bed and makes his way to the hallway, causing him to shiver as his bare feet make contact with the ice cold hardwood floor. The grandfather clock in the hall chimes, startling him, and he instinctively bolts out of his room and across the hall. He finds his footing in the familiar worn spot in front of her door that his feet no longer notch perfectly into like they did when he was small.

Trying as hard as he can not to make noise, but still intending on being swift about exiting the hallway, he twists the knob in his hands slowly, and pushes the door open. His mother is fast asleep, which Miles is thankful for.

He resists the urge to jump across the floor in haste, knowing the floorboards creak when stepped on in the wrong places. Delicately, his feet slide across the floor, moving quick to prevent them from becoming too cold against the freezing wood. Miles lifts open the quilt bedding, and gently crawls into the already warm sheets. Releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he settles in as quietly as he can. The room is so still and silent, he can hear the snow falling outside the window.

“You really haven’t gotten any better at sneaking, hm?”

Miles shuts his eyes in chagrin at the sound of his mothers voice.

“Sorry mama. Thought I was bein’ quiet.”

“Ah.”

Katherine turns her head to look at Miles curled up beside her. “What’s wrong, angel? You only ever do this when you’re upset.”

“No I don’t.”

“Miles James Miller, lying is a sin.”

There’s silence again. Miles is sure his mother meant it jokingly, but it cuts deep. She still doesn’t know the full extent of what happened at the El Royale, and he doesn’t intend on telling her. Lying had become a second language he was still trying to unlearn.

“I just- I had a bad dream.”

His mother sighs and shifts her body to face him. “Is that all?”

Miles nods. “You won’t make me go back t’ bed, will you, mama?”

“No, angel, of course not.”

The silence returns momentarily. Then, Miles crawls closer to her, wiggling his head under her overreaching arm and brings his hands close to his chest, clinging to her nightgown. His legs don’t quite fit, but he’s already far to big for all of this. He breathes in deeply to steady himself, and he can smell the lavender extract of her shampoo. His mothers hand rakes through his hair, and Miles feels his eyes growing heavy. He slips into unconsciousness to the feeling of relief.


End file.
